My father makes people cry

Yes, my father makes people cry.

A man of passion, my father devoted his life to business and law. He won cases for both rich and poor people. When he won cases for the rich, he would come home with a bag full of money. When he won cases for the poor, he would come home with a bag full of vegetables.

“No, you don’t have to pay me anything for my services,” he told poor farmers in his Zambales hometown. That touched the farmers and made them hug my father and cry.

 A diehard Atenean, my father would bring the whole family to Ateneo to watch Shakespeare’s plays, even if my brother Ramon only had a tiny role on stage. A basketball fanatic, my six-foot-tall father would also make us cheer for Ateneo during basketball games. The only piece of jewelry he wears, to this day, is his Ateneo ring. He must have lost his wedding ring. And that made my mother cry.

 So very pro-American, my father likes everything stateside, from his Chesterfields to his Fords to his americanas. He never wore a barong all his life. His lifetime uniform has been his crisp, white long-sleeved shirt, well-ironed dark pants and an americana slung over his shoulder, if not worn during warm days.

He also had an eye for women with brown hair and fair skin. And that made my mother cry. And cry. And cry. Until she fled to the United States 30 years ago to dry her tears, never to come back. And my brothers and sisters followed her.

After high school, I wanted to take up Fine Arts, but my father told me: “What? Fine Arts is not a career, it’s just a hobby.” He wanted me to take up Law. As a compromise, I enrolled in Foreign Service and later happily shifted to Journalism. Then, on my birthday, my father gave me a gift — a painting set, complete with oil tubes, brushes, a palette and an easel. That made me cry.

My father worked hard all his life. One morning when he was 80, he woke up at 4 a.m. and wearing his crisp white shirt and americana, he asked our driver to bring him to a neighbor’s house and there told the security guard that he had an appointment with his longtime associate, Mr. Roco. “But Mr. Roco died 10 years ago,” the guard told him, amid my father’s violent protestations. So my father instead told our driver to bring him to their office in Makati. There was no such office. “Your office building was demolished in the l970s to give way to this new one,” he was told. My father insisted: “What do you mean demolished? I have an appointment in the office, and Mr. Roco will be there, too.” That made our driver cry.

 A choosy eater, my father loved morcon, beef steak and Spanish tapas which my mother cooks so well. But now at 87, he has forgotten to be choosy. He now likes McDonald’s hamburger, Coke and chocolates, and goes into a tantrum if not given his wishes. And that makes us cry.

 When my balikbayan brother Edgar was here, he reserved a table in my father’s good old favorite resto. But my father refused to enter the resto with him, saying he had to ask my permission first. My father thinks I am his keeper and mentor. He told my brother: “Who are you, you are an impostor, I will not eat with you.” And that made my brother cry.

 When another balikbayan brother, Tonie, came home this year, my father hid in the bedroom with his caregiver for one whole hour. “Do you know me?” my brother asked. ”Yes, you are my youngest son. There’s Ramon, Nina, Edgar, Millet, Lulu and you.” Then my brother asked, “Do you remember the name of your wife?” My father replied: “Yes, her name is Nita. She makes good morcon. I miss her. Where is she?”

 Miles and miles away, that made my mother cry.